


Move Like Gray Skies

by irolltwenties (Shenanigans)



Series: Til the Night [3]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Filth with Feels, Interlude, M/M, here there be bjs, i tried??, smut?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 02:59:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19736968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenanigans/pseuds/irolltwenties
Summary: He was used to waking up alone. He was used to Alex leaving in the night. Michael didn’t know why he thought this time would be any different.





	Move Like Gray Skies

**Author's Note:**

> For EssCee.

The rain was like driving into a wall of water. It slipped up over the dented hood of his Chevy and across the windshield in a rumbling slide. Michael drove for hours, just a crawling ramble from one edge of the mesa to the other, criss crossing and listless. He hadn’t driven her in almost a week. She’d been hit in the firefight at Sanders Salvage, a few holes puckering the tailgate, small side window spider webbing around the clean entrance hole while the plastic he’d had to tape into the rear window fluttered like a drum head in the dark. Michael Guerin loved his Chevy, simply. He touched where she was wounded with light fingers, unbearably weary of the things he loved being destroyed by being near him. He pet along the length of the truck bed, soothing her the way he would a cantankerous pony and bending to touch his mouth to the cold metal. He’d fix her. He’d fix all of it. 

“Come on, Baby Girl,” he breathed, wetting his lips as he sent a quick prayer into the world and turned the ignition. Her engine block had seemed undamaged, but he knew the worst kind of damage wasn’t visible. She revved once, his heart catching high in his chest before she purred through a quick cough and shuddered to a warm vigorous growl. He smiled at her, tucking his forehead to the steering wheel and swallowing thickly. “Good girl. That’s my good girl.”

Michael spent the last two days replacing the doors on Max’s patio, careful of the way they would hang. It was important to make sure the was jamb level and carefully reinforced. Max wandered out of his bedroom just past noon, eyes bleary and hair a wild tangle around his head. Max padded on bare feet down the hall and out into the living room. He’d been surprised, it was there in the way he’d clutched the blanket around his shoulders tighter, the way he paused at the end of the hallway to look at Michael with wide eyes. His surprise smoothed out into acceptance and he’d relaxed, shoulders loose as he sighed. “Man, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

Max wet his lips and glanced into his kitchen before turning back to where Michael worked. The blanket he wore like a cape fluttered slightly in the breeze from outside. Michael hadn’t looked over, nails tucked into the corners of his mouth as Max just watched him work. Max stepped around the stain on the floor, feet bare and quiet on the hardwood as he draped the blanket over the back of the couch and reached to hold the wood bracing in place.

“It’ll be crooked,” Max stated, voice low and careful. He didn’t look at Michael, just focused tight on the line of the wood jamb with the wall. 

“Thanks,” Michael answered, swallowing around the closest they would come to an apology. He nodded, setting the next nail and tapping it carefully into place. They worked in silence for the next hour, shoulder to shoulder.

Before that he’d helped stuff Noah’s suits into black trash bags while Isobel watched from the doorway. He’d been staying in her guest room, curled on top of the comforter in a pile of blankets and uncomfortable in the pajama pants she’d given him. The toothpaste tasted different and the shower pounded him with hot water from the double head. He’d wanted to stay there, braced against the white subway tile behind the fogged glass doors. He wanted to sit in the steam and breathe. Isobel was quiet in the mornings, hair caught back in a wide band with a ribbon tying her hair back. She would grump when he reached over her coffee cup to wipe the last bit of face mask into her skin with a quick thumb. She glanced up at him, eyes sad, and he was so unbearably tired of the people he loved hurting.

She’d made a noise when he’d just stuffed the first suit into the bag in an indelicate crumple. He had stilled, glancing to where she was standing wrapped in a long cashmere wrap in the doorway. She didn’t look at him, frown wobbling across her mouth before she’d turned on a quick heel and walked away. He heard the door to the garage slam shut. He paused, feeling the quality of the fabric for a long minute before pulling the next trash bag and shaking it open. He cut a hole in the bottom of the trash bag after that- slipping the hanger hooks through and smoothing the bags over the lean lines and soft merino with gentle hands. Isobel wasn’t there. She didn’t need to watch from behind him, jaw hard and eyes inscrutable. When he finished he’d slung the pile over his shoulder and moved down the hall to the garage. 

Isobel was sorting through a legal box of papers she’d pulled down from the metal shelves lining the wall opposite where her Audi gleamed. The door was open, the space cold and protected from the sharp breeze. 

“Where do you want it?”

She’d just sniffed, sucking her teeth and nodded to where the back of her Audi was gaping open, waiting to take what was left of Noah from her life. He unloaded the bags and closed the back. 

“I think I’m going to paint the living room purple,” she told him, looking down at the transcript in her hand. She looked small, pulled tight into herself in the stretch of cashmere over her shoulders, the tie caught tight at her waist. She glanced over at him as he approached. “Maybe pink?”

“Whatever you want. Just let me know when to be here.” He hugged her close before driving to the desert to burn the pile of simple slim cut suits and memories. She’d offered him the chance to take them to resale, but he’d just shaken his head- this was more important than money.

Before that he’d been on hands and knees in the dust of the pod cave, blown open and scorched by the wild supernova of power. He was sure they’d won, sure that for once they’d succeeded. He was sure he’d heard Max in the dark before he’d gone dizzy and sick with power. Michael dry heaved in the dark, gasping and breathless as he choked. 

“Hey, take a breath,” Alex gentled, smoothing his hand along Michael’s jaw and over where his shoulders were knotting and cramping. Michael heard Alex and turned his face up, eyes watering and chest aching. Alex smiled at him, soft and proud. Michael remembered the way he’d trembled, muscles watery after the shocking electric press of power. 

It had been stunning, like he could simply reach out and rearrange the molecules of the world into something that would be _kind_ for once, something that would be _gentle_. He could have reached and pushed his fingers into the dirt and nudged the mountain to the right, move the whole blanket of earth under his fingers like shaking out a sheet.

Michael had touched the raw white core of power and revelled in possibility. Is this how Max had felt when he’d healed his hand? Is this how he’d felt when he pulled Rosa back from the dead? Dizzy in the maelstrom of chance, of the endless sprawl of what the world could be if he simply _tipped_ it. 

Michael could have pulled everything that had ever hurt him into a small clap of heat and power, crumbling them to dust, to less than dust, to nothing but the fuel of him as a star. He was cosmic entropy made flesh, the awful and endless expansion of the space between the black, the vibrating heart of the world that twirled endless and inevitable to all edges of possibility. He was the force of neutron star. He was the collapse that pulled everything to him, the crush of something that burned so bright for so long that when it died the entire universe mourned. He was deeper than dark. He made gravity dizzy. He didn’t have to exist anymore, just _destroy_. He’d felt that thought crackle through him, tilting his head back with closed eyes as he’d ridden the rise of possibility, ridden the aching edge of _revenge_.

“Guerin.” 

And he’d stopped. He’d stopped, focusing in on the only thing in the world that ever mattered. 

Alex pulled Michael’s fingers to cover where his healing had left a shimmering handprint, vivid and necessary. Alex let him touch his skin, map the edges of his mark. 

“Stay with me, Guerin.” Alex tilted his head, watching Michael like he was something stunning and beautiful. Alex had reached, touching light fingers to the angle of his jaw and Michael remembered himself.

He didn’t notice the way the cave stopped vibrating, the rock silent from where it had rumbled ominous bass. He didn’t notice the small pebbles that had breathed into the air when he went alight dropped in one quick clatter. He didn’t notice the way everything had stopped swirling around him where he screamed his help into Max. He didn’t notice, because Alex was all he could see.

The cave was quiet, the murmur of voices a hushed whisper in the aftermath of a miracle. 

It had been a week and Alex slipped out of his skin in a slow ebb, a little and then all at once. Michael missed the comfort of his heartbeat under his skin. He missed the soft dreams in the dark when Alex slept. They tangled up around him like sheets against his ankles, softer than spider silk in the sigh of a kiss, the memory of the way his head rocked back, the fading montage of hands and teeth and tongue. The dreams in the dark left him sweating, over warm in the cool air of Isobel’s guest room. Alex in dreams was a half life of Alex in reality- he moved slower, touches a careful gentling instead of the insistent aching _need_ of him in real life. In dreams he was unhurried, moving like the unchangeable press of the tide. Michael missed the soft buzz of him in the back of his brain as he had fixed his home. 

It had been a week and now it was just Michael alone with himself and the violence of silence. 

Roswell let him go, pulling slightly as he turned onto St Rt 247 heading north west towards the distant blur of mountains. The sunset folded under the clouds, hidden in the dark behind the weight of a thunderhead that powered like a tall threatening anvil ready to hammer the stars. He knew where he was going. He could lie to everyone, but he couldn’t lie convincingly to himself. The road started swaying side to side, easing around the curve of hills beginning to roll out of the earth. The rain crackled once, a perfect lightning strike strobing across the desert and then flashing dark. He knew where he was going, had known from the moment he’d woken to silence. 

In the dark his mind reached for Alex, finding him in dreams, in memories. He wondered if he could reach him, find him in daylight but his thoughts felt sharp against his skull and burning behind his eyes. Michael reached for Alex, but met only silence. The guest room was dark, black out curtains shading the day into weak gray tones that made the tasteful decor blend into blobs of dark and light contrasting against the white of the walls. He’d kept his clothes in a duffel on a chair in the corner, the dresser empty and a closet full of folded linens. Michael didn’t like to settle anywhere he might have to leave. The bed was too soft, comfortable in a way that kept him caught in sleep, kept him caught in the dreams of Alex’s mouth, his touch, his sighs. Michael turned, pushing his face into the pillow and ached. 

Now, he simply turned the wheel and headed west. He was used to waking up alone. He was used to Alex leaving in the night. Michael didn’t know why he thought this time would be any different.

The rain sheeted down, catching the ragged sound of his breath close in the truck cabin. The plastic flapped, stretched taut and battered by the weight of the weather. He’d turned, it had seemed so simple at the start. He needed and it was like hearing a song in the distance, following a light on the horizon. Alex was a beacon in the black. 

He followed the rutted back road, bracing for the deep pitted points and grip firm on the steering wheel. He was staring into the cone of light the headlights picked out of the rain, a few startling white trees flashing past before he hit the rumble strip of the cow grate and slowed, cutting the lights and shifting into neutral to roll forward in the dark. The wood cabin was pastoral and utterly beautiful, warm amber glow from inside so inviting. He could see the shivering silhouette of Alex walking from one room to the next, tracking the hazy outline through the wash of rain on his windshield.

He’d felt Alex leaving him in moments, in breaths, in the small aching emptiness he’d left behind. He’d leaned into the closeness, desperate each night to sleep. Michael was fighting to find his way through the dark to the one place that felt safe, that felt like home. In the morning he was alone again. It felt like a worn groove in metal, the notch that they always slotted into. He could feel the disconnect, could feel the broken place but he couldn’t fix it alone. Muscle memory was the hardest to forget. He sat in the close warmth of his truck cab, watching hope blur in the rain. Michael was tired of losing the things he loved to inaction. The handle felt loose, needing to be tightened and he didn’t want to look back to see the way the rain was leaking in the taped back window. He blew out a breath and pushed the door open, ducking out of the memory of hope and into the rain.

He was used to Alex being gone in the morning.

**

Wentz lit up with a burgeoning howl before she’d even stood up. Alex glanced to where she was shoving out of her dog bed and scrambling on short legs to escape the tile in the kitchen. He wet his lips, narrowing his eyes at the dark outside before setting his coffee cup down carefully, pressing pause on his phone, and reaching for his weapon. He’d started carrying it after he’d come home to an empty house and the memory of his father in the dark. He’d hoped that there was one place spared his father’s violence, but he’d had to clean up one more mess from the kitchen floor. Wentz had come home the next morning after the cave, wriggling happily in the back of Hunter’s Bronco while the older white muzzled Catahoula mutt, Harley, had simply flattened on the backseat. Hunter’s mutt had huffed with obvious canine relief when Wentz leapt from the back and yowled her way to where Alex was standing. 

“Thanks,” Alex managed, hunkered down and rocking her square head, grinning helplessly at the way her ears flopped against his fingers.

Hunter shrugged, arm out the side where he drummed his fingers against the fading green paint. “It’s not over.”

“It never is,” Alex answered, straightening. He’d started using his specialized athletic prosthesis while a new everyday one was being made. It wasn’t as lifelike, a long curving rod that absorbed the shock of his weight. He shifted, feeling the bounce of it and motioned for Wentz to sit. She plopped down quickly, panting up at him as she worked through her breathless enthusiasm with a thump of her thick tail.

“I’m sorry I didn-”

“Save it.” Alex turned his head, staring out over the brown scrub that stretched towards the road. He nodded once, glancing back at his brother. “Any word on Flint?”

“Lost his trail after Tularosa.” Hunter shook his head. “No sign of Harlan.” Alex watched his older brother for a long moment, the way his face went hard edged, determined through the jaw. “They know where I stand, now.” He sniffed, tossing a careless smile over his face to hide the way his brows drew together in a dark line of worry. “You ready for what’s coming, Squirt?”

“Not yet,” Alex had answered, honest for a moment. “But I will be.”

Six days later and Alex was finally settling into the new normal. He’d spent one night clearing through the Project Shepherd bunker, cataloguing the weapons cache, the server’s capabilities, and setting up a new layer of encryption to protect the constant stream of surveillance data. He’d caught himself watching Guerin in grainy black and white for twenty minutes as the other man wrenched the broken door frames from Max’s patio before reaching to flick off the monitor.

He’d been dreaming of Guerin for a week. Wreckless dreaming that left him aching in the morning, gasping into consciousness with a low groan of denial. He could still taste Michael on his tongue, still feel the way he’d teased at him, pulling at his hips, the back of his thigh, the warm broad plane of his shoulders. It had to be dreaming. It had to be. He’d been dreaming of him at night and in the soft moments he let his mind wander as he stared out the window on post. He’d dreamed in memories and soft sighs. A week of feeling Michael haunting his mind, haunting the chambers of his heart like a song in an empty room. A week of this maddening dreaming. This morning he’d woken up angrily alone, heel stretching as he pointed his toes, residual limb flexing at the knee as he yawned outward into a full body stretch. He’d woken up alone and it felt cold under his skin.

The cabin was tidy, a small space with one full bathroom he’d started retrofitting with the bars in a shower along with a stool. There was a smaller half bath off the living room to the left of the fireplace. The bedroom was across a short hall off the kitchen, closet set slightly back into the wall with folding slatted doors. The bed was a simple queen with a wrought iron frame that was probably as old as the cabin itself. The sheets kept tight corners, the line of shoes neatly polished. Alex started slowly purging the past, pulling the trinkets and kitsch from the shelves. He’d taken down two separate deer heads and two coventry quail that were caught in morbid flight against a wood plaque. He’d left the records. He’d left the books.

The kitchen was the most lived in part of the entire cabin, the apron sink kept a polished white porcelain with two cups drying in the rack and one thin white plate with a delicate yet dated blue floral pattern stamped into the edge. The countertops were wiped down each night, the trash taken to the can under the cottonwood just to the North of the house. He’d shift the raccoon rock off the top, setting it aside as he tossed the bag and replaced it before heading back to the porch. 

He’d started taking walks in the evenings, bundled against the cold with a thick down jacket, a simple plaid wool scarf and black beanie. He’d watch Wentz porpoise through the high grass, endless enthusiasm ranging in long loping loops as she ran ahead, turned to spot him, and trotted back to touch her nose to his fingers before racing off again. He’d started walking the same path along the small creekbed, the water a shockingly clear cold that sang over the wide river stones. He’d make it to the gnarled oak that spread lazy limbs out over the field, the roots sunk deep but burnished smooth from use when he’d been a kid. The treehouse was silvering in the desert sun, wood soft and covered in a bright green lichen. 

He took long walks at night because it was easier than missing something he’d never had.

Alex reached over, tapping his phone to pause the music that had been rolling out of the speaker he’d set up in the built in bookshelves. The rain started two hours earlier, roaring along the tin roof from the south edge by the fireplace across the living room and past the kitchen to shadow the plains and streak the windows wet. He’d started the music to drown out the silence and the endless white noise. Wentz was staring with the singular focus of a beagle on a mission at the front door. Alex had palmed his weapon, the Glock only set into the gun safe on the wooden night stand when he was sure the perimeter was secure. He crept to the front door, arms up, elbows bent, hand supporting his wrist, and fingers loose on the trigger. 

There was a squeal of metal on metal, familiar and pavlovian. Alex dropped the sight and thumbed the safety back on, waiting for a moment before letting it hang at his side in loose fingers. He reached, pulling the curtain on the inset window back, peering through the dark to pick the watery shape of a body in the rain. He tensed, heart kicking over as he reacted on instinct, pulling the door open and pulling his weapon up to take aim at the person in the dark. 

“Don’t shoot!” Michael Guerin was standing in his front yard, hands loose at his side as he stared across the space to the front door. “I come in peace?” Michael Guerin was standing in the freezing onslaught of the downpour, fat drops pelting his curls flat to his head and curving to drop from the point of his chin as it pressed the thin cotton of his shirt translucent where it clung to his skin. Alex could see Michael breathing, the way his stomach moved, his ribs flexing as he stared up at him, over the long stretch of his drive. 

“Guerin, what the hell?” Alex took a half step forward, dropping his aim and letting the Glock hang at his side. “What are you doin-”

“Did you mean it?” Michael shivered, denim going dark as the rain kept pounding. He wet his lips and tasted the storm. "Because I can't... I can't watch you walk away again, Alex."

Alex inhaled slowly, clenching his jaw and squaring up with a nearly military precision. "Guerin." He shifted his weight, resettling his heel as the rain picked up, sheeting across the yard and over the tin roof with a staccato tap. He reached back through the open door to set his weapon down. "What? Just- come out of the storm."

Michael stared, beautiful and wet, and Alex knows that this is something. He felt the way Michael made himself small, curled in at the edges like he’s expecting a blow. Alex recognized the move because he’d made himself small before. He knows because he’d been the one curled tight with hands covering his head, elbows tucked against his sides, and knees up to protect his stomach. It’s so familiar he can feel the ache of an old break that never healed quite right. All he’d ever wanted was for someone to simply step forward and stop the blow. 

They aren’t moving like this. They aren’t growing, trapped in this rhythm. Someone needs to move. Someone needs to simply step forward. Alex sighs and starts down the short steps, careful as he places the new prosthetic, aware of how slippery the walk can be before moving to where Michael is standing. He’s determined, unstoppable as he walks. The rain is heavy, cold slapping into him like a physical blow. He feels it drench his sock, seeping into his shoe, cold smearing up his thighs, his shoulders, plastering his hair flat against his forehead. He can taste it in his mouth, wetting his lips as he keeps moving despite the soft worried bark behind him. 

The storm hangs low in the sky, wiping away the footprint he left behind, filling it with cold water. He stands in the rain and looks at Guerin with a clean even gaze, eyes wondering. They’re close enough he can see the rain ricochet off Michael’s skin; he can see it sink into the heavy denim of his jacket. He can see the dark tangle of Michael’s chest hair where the shirt clings to his skin. 

He wants. He wants so badly, but this is something new. 

Michael is pale, watered down and cold. He looks carved from moonlight, ridiculous and romantic with clumped eyelashes. His full mouth is wet; his curls were plastered to his skin, running rivulets down his neck, his temple, his jaw. Michael was ethereal; he was everything Alex ever dreamed. Alex wants to hold onto this moment. He realizes something so simple as he breathes, as he stares at the only thing he wants now. He can tell Michael to stay. He can stay. Michael is breathing hard, choking around the way he’s hurting in the dark. " _Alex_ -"

It’s _never_ been a choice. Alex blinks, slicking his wet hair back before glancing over his shoulder to the warmth of his cabin. It’s _never_ been something he had any control over. War was like that. So was love.

Alex leans past Michael, leans _into_ him, and shuts the truck door with a tired squeal of metal. "Come inside." 

He leans back and just swallows. He’s so worried about his words right now. He’s so worried that what he says is not what Michael will hear. Alex reaches, pausing before placing his hands, watching each finger settle on Michael’s skin just under his jaw before glancing up again. He reaches and can’t help the small slide of his thumb against the sharp angle of Michael’s jaw, the way he can nearly count the sharp prickle of stubble against his fingerprint. He glances up and let’s his gaze hold the weight Michael gives him. He holds it until Michael takes a breath, shivering into motion and surging forward.

It’s a crash, skidded out in the cold and wet as he pulled Michael in, pulled him _close_. He heard the noise he made. He heard the animal sound of want. It’s muffled under the way the rain slips between them to slick their mouths. Michael kisses him and he’s aflame in the rain. Alex stumbled back, panting as he gave small little orders. “Come on.” He shoved his hands deeper into the wet mess of curls. “This way.” And he can feel the small skidded steps, the way he clings to Michael and hops back in short quick movements. “Guerin,” Alex heard his voice break at the feel of Michael’s mouth, his teeth. “ _Fuck._ Just come _on_.”

Michael hooked an arm around his waist, pressing them together at the hips and stumbling. It’s the press of a hard thigh, the clench of a bicep, the way Michael seemed liquid and scorching once Alex got his hands pressed flat against his skin. They tangled a little and Michael held them upright through the utter devotion he had to their kiss. Michael growled, hefting Alex up slightly when they reached the stairs. Alex grabbed him around another cracking groan of his name. He curled his fingers and tugged Michael’s head back, just enough- tight and controlled- that the kiss opened, deepened, went _obscene_. 

They made it into the cabin almost by chance and Alex pushed the denim jacket off of Michael’s shoulders with a frenzy that he couldn’t seem to stop. It buzzed under his skin, it buzzed in his fingertips and it’s a sweet ache- this _need_. Michael looked wrecked, staring at him with a swollen mouth, chest heaving as he twisted, trapped at the wrists by the rain soaked jacket even as he strained forward. He reached for Alex with his mouth, shaking when they crashed again. Alex heard the moment the jacket slapped against the hardwood because that’s the moment Michael’s hands are free. 

Michael’s touch roamed wild over Alex’s skin. It left trails of heat and want that Alex throbbed around, blind to anything but Michael- under his fingers, against his mouth, touching him. Michael managed to get his fingers under the wet cotton of Alex’s shirt and started rucking it up with his wrists. He paused, looking down between them before startling back up, eyes wide and shocky. Alex swore and his eyes rolled slightly when Michael thumbed the elastic of his sweats aside.

There’s a moment when they could stop. There’s a moment when they’re both panting, staring at each other just inside the doorway. There’s a moment, but Michael moved and Alex was already in motion, reaching to get his hands around the cold metal of Michael’s belt buckle as the other man snagged the back collar of his shirt and shucked out of it in one fluid twist. Alex gasped for breath, frantic as he let his eyes wander, skidding from one angle to the next. It’s a blur of one stretch of Michael’s skin pebbling in the air to the shock of his gaze. Alex is lost to the aching throb of want as his fingers pressed past the thick seam of denim, past the cold sharp of zipper to close around Michael’s length.

Michael stilled, eyes ravenous as he trembled. Alex gritted his jaw, wetting his lips and holding that golden gaze as he _moved_ his grip. His fingers slipped over the soft silky heat, thumb smearing over the thick head. The pulse of precome was hot, mouth watering, as Michael moaned, eyes slipping closed. They crashed against a bookcase, Alex’s back pressed tight as Michael moved forward in a small half shuffle. Michael nuzzled into Alex’s neck, voice low as he whispered a soft plea. “Just a little, Alex.” Michael bit at his jaw. “ _Please_.”

In the end, it was simple.

Alex swallowed, mouth dropping open as he breathed. He watched the high flush rise across Michael’s chest. He watched the way it spread splotchy over Michael’s neck. He could be gentle. He could be tender, but he _wanted_. He nodded, blinking slowly as his gaze flicked to Michael’s mouth. His gaze followed his fingers as he traced the soft swell of his bottom lip, pressing his thumb against it in silent swollen question. “Anything,” he promised.

Michael opened for him. Michael _always_ opened for him and he exhaled at the way his dick throbbed in his pants. Alex can feel his heart jump as he tensed, toes curling as he hooked his thumb against the sharp edge of Michael’s bottom teeth and tugged. He could feel the way Michael tasted the touch. 

There was no hesitation; there never had to be. 

Michael dropped, hitting his knees and stared up Alex’s body as he leaned forward, pressing his face against his hip. Alex heard his head thump back against the shelf behind him when Guerin tugged his pants down, nose sliding along his length. Michael always paused, just a breathless awed moment when the heat of his breath would break against where Alex ached, hard and tense around the wild electric need that coiled under his skin. Alex’s cock ached in the cool air. He was overfull and _aware_. 

Alex felt Michael in the way his thighs knotted, his calf tensed, his shoulders gone taut. Michael paused and Alex grabbed him by the back of the head, helpless to the urgent squirming impatience before Michael opened his mouth. Michael’s tongue teased around the next breath before he pressed Alex’s cock past his lips, past his teeth. 

Alex moaned, smeared smooth like sex against Michael’s tongue. Guerin sucked once and Alex’s world distilled, emptying to the sensation of need and impossible wet heat. He felt his hips tense, snapping to fuck deeper. He forced a deep breath, mouth dropping open as he glared down at where Michael’s lips rolled over his length. It was riveting; Alex was unable to keep his fingers from going white knuckled and desperate. Michael stared up at him through his lashes, groans echoing against him even as Alex tried to be gentle. 

Alex wanted to be so gentle with Michael even when he was breaking him.

The living room was a mess of their moans, Michael’s cut off and short in his throat, mouth full as Alex just noised his need into the air. They pollinated the dark with their need. Alex hummed a riot of sound when Michael dropped his hand, curling to stroke himself roughly as his eyes slipped shut. Alex could feel the way Michael fucked his own fist in the tempo of his shoulders. He could feel the way he matched the stroke to the movement of his tongue, to the way Alex’s hips flexed and fucked harder past his lips. Michael choked around a whine when Alex reached his free hand to touch where Guerin’s lips were stretched around him, touched to slide and feel the wet of his mouth.

It felt like melting. It felt like heat and impossible change, the touch of his tongue, the wet smear of his face. It was always like this, a touch too much, a breath too far, a heartbeat too necessary. It was always like this. It twisted him up, reckless and desperate in the dark with Michael’s mouth on him. It crashed through him, _wanting more_ , impossibly more even as he could feel his release tighten through him. He could feel it twist and pull, aching as Michael pulled off to gasp against his hip in rough moans that sounded like his name. Michael flushed hotter, sweat prickling over his skin, slicking the line of his spine just before he came. He shook with his swollen mouth smearing over the cut of muscle at Alex’s left hip and eyes closed as he stuttered through the aftershocks: too sweet, too much. 

Alex came with Michael’s name in his mouth and Michael’s moans crashing against his skin. 

Michael nosed against the skin under his face, wetting his lips and tasting the salt of sweat before chancing a glance up at Alex. Alex pet at his hair, fingers trailing light and shaking along the arch of his brow, wondering over the bridge of his nose, and then comforting as he cupped his jaw, thumb slipping light over the bruised mess of his mouth. 

“Alex.” It was a plea. It was a prayer. It was his name in Michael’s mouth.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” Alex answered, swallowing as he lingered in the moment, in the way Michael was pliant and shockingly open under his touch. “Okay?”

They didn’t talk as Michael leaned back, exhaling a long slow breath and nodding. They didn’t talk as Alex pulled his shirt off, wiping his hands in the cotton and offering it to Michael. They didn’t talk as Alex hitched his sweats back up over his hips, hissing at the friction against his overstimulated skin. They didn’t talk as Michael pushed to his feet, uncaring of the way his belt clattered against his thigh as he reached to smooth his fingers over Alex’s skin. The touch was soft, wondering as Michael traced a speckling pucker of scar tissue just to the right of his belly button.

“Mosul,” Alex answered the silent question. Michael’s fingers find a jagged silvery scar over his rib. "That one is my father." Alex blinks, voice low in the inches between them. “ _Was_ my father.” Michael's hair was half slick curls, drying a little and he doesn't look up. He hesitates before sliding his fingers to slot between the spaces in Alex’s ribs. It’s quiet, like if he looked up Alex would disappear. "Guerin," Alex sighed, just the two syllables that have haunted his lungs for ten years. "I.. I want to be-"

"Just be here," Michael interrupted and it knocked the breath out of Alex when he flicked his warm brown gaze up. It knocked the breath out of him with the naked need there. Alex reached and touched the bow of his top lip, shaking through a shock of need so purposefully _Michael_ he worried his knees might give out. 

"I can do that."

"For me?"

"Anything."

**Author's Note:**

> Come flail with me 


End file.
